


Prodigal Son

by wajjs



Category: DCU, Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt Jason Todd, Injury Recovery, Other, Pre-Relationship, Prompt Fill, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:13:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26864215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wajjs/pseuds/wajjs
Summary: Why is he staying conscious? No one's coming. He knows. He damn well knows.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Jason Todd & Slade Wilson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 114





	Prodigal Son

**Author's Note:**

> Another one I should've shared here some time ago! For my [prompt party](https://wajjs.tumblr.com/tagged/blob%27s-prompt-party)
> 
> The prompt was: _Jason is hurt or have a panick attack and one of his brother, or all the brother, or bruce, or slade, is here to help him, hurt/comfort and fluff please!_
> 
> [Original post](https://wajjs.tumblr.com/post/625843878017236992/jason-is-hurt-or-have-a-panick-attack-and-one-of)

**Prodigal Son**

_ It ain't me, it ain't me, _

_ I ain't no fortunate one. _

From where he stands, he stifles a laugh because he's sure as hell no one is gonna make it in time. And that's the thing with him, that's the truth to his story: he's always been a bastard to the clock ticking away the minutes, the seconds, till it's time to go boom. Still, following the branches of truth, he's not standing. He couldn't be so even if he were to try, not with an exposed fracture in the shin and a knife stuck deep inside his thigh.

He doesn't even move, not an inch or centimeter, in the chair he's been dumped on. His skin around the coarse ropes is raw and bleeding, too. That's because of his earlier trashing. He doesn't have the energy anymore. Because there are more open wounds littered all over his torso, bruises on his face, split lip all swollen and tender. His energy is going to keeping his breathing steady. To staying awake.

What for, though? Why is he staying conscious? No one's coming. He knows. He damn well knows.

Maybe it's just so that he can walk through death's door with both eyes wide open. Not that anyone will notice, because as stripped down as he might be, left only in his underwear and socks, at least they didn't take off the mask. The only true mercy.

There, right there: the sound expensive shoes make when their owner walks on concrete floors—getting closer again. He lifts his head towards the source, smiling, because the only way he'll ever stop taunting someone is when he's six feet under, mouthful of maggots choking him down.

"Miss me already? Can't have enough of me, huh?"

When they shatter his clavicle, this time he does black out.

A body can only withhold so much damage when delivered in different visits throughout several hours that by the tail end of the ordeal begin drifting onto one big mass of existence. He can't even hold his head up anymore and his eyes are barely open behind the mask. There's a sound of an agitated rattle snake inside his chest every time he breathes. He can taste his blood, thick and warm, in his mouth, on his tongue.

He isn't even sure why he's here, how he got here, when, where, what is left or right or in front or behind. If he's still sitting it's impossible for him to tell. He's stopped feeling the rope some stabs ago. He thinks he's smiling. He thinks he never stopped.

"Stubborn asshole," someone says in between the sea of buzzing silence taking over thought.

"—now? What now?"

He tries to focus. He honestly tries.

"Let's leave——couple of hours——he'll croak."

So much for trying.

At least he stops hearing that buzzing, nonstop, piercing and looming all over. At least he gets to rest. A little bit. Just a little bit. No harm in closing his eyes, sleeping a little. Letting himself fall into that lull, the one that comes after one too many aches piled up one atop the other. The one that tells him come on son, let go, it will all be easier if you let go. You held up well, more than the very best of the best, you fought your fight. Come on, son. It'll all be over.

No one's coming, that lull says. No one's coming but that's alright, isn't it? You've learnt to pick up after yourself. You haven't mastered the science of putting a stop to the waiting, that's true, but everyone has their shortcomings.

He tries to curl the fingers of his hand, any of the two. He doesn't think he quite manages to. Ah, that will make crawling trickier. If he can even make it to the floor.

It's unclear when he passes out again but this time, when he comes to, is to shouts drowning out other shouts, gunfire blasting off and disrupting the rhythm of the thick, nearly impenetrable molasses existence has come to be. He tries to open his mouth to complain, ask them to stop with their bitching already, but only a trickle of blood comes out, spilling down his chin sinuous and slow.

Someone lets out a whistle near him and the sound is somewhat familiar. He latches onto it for good, struggles against the lightless nothingness threatening to take over the still working part of his brain. He's staying awake this time even if that's the final thing that'll push him over.

"They really did a number on you, kid," that someone says and ok, yes, he knows that voice. Knows that tone. One that carries ease and danger all in a neat package, precise and deadly. There's an undercurrent there, though, of  _ something else _ but he's too out of it to realize what.

What's important is that he recognizes the voice. And so he struggles with sound again.

" —troke."

The bastard laughs. It's short, clipped, and maybe, perhaps, a little bit, probably, pissed off. What did he do now? It's not his fault his jaw is probably fractured. Wait. Maybe it is. He  _ did _ taunt them.

"Good enough," Deathstroke speaks again, presumably before or while untying him, he can't tell. There's probably more that's being said but he can hardly stay focused. A pinch and he's—gone.

By the time he opens his eyes again, life seems new and the same old bitch at the same time. New because his surroundings are definitely different and absolutely, one hundred percent, cleaner. He's also lying down now in a bed that's too comfortable to be true, or maybe it just feels that way because he is redefining the meaning of the word 'tired'. Making a whole new entry for it in every fucking dictionary in the world with the description of 'being dead hurts way fucking less'.

It doesn't matter. Before he can even do something like groan out loud in mild discomfort, there's a face right above his, dark hair and vivid blue eyes the depth of the ocean.

"You're awake," none other than Dick motherfucking Grayson says, voice tangled up in worry. "Jay, thank gods you're awake."

"You better don't speak, kid," Slade says from somewhere he can't see, his usual rumble something that in this situation actually soothes, which is a fucking rarity. "Not with your jaw like that."

Dick carries on like this is just a regular monday, like sure, yes, there's nothing odd about being in what Jason's  _ pretty sure _ is one of Slade's safehouses wounded under the care of said asshole and Grayson, an utter dick by trade. Maybe this is the updated torture hell has designed for him, for this second time on the wheelhouse of brimstone and flames, and he's well and truly dead.

He's pretty sure he isn't, though.

It's… strange. He had truly believed no one would get him, because, well, he had told no one where he was going, what he was doing. He had jumped guns first into the chance at dismantling the human trafficking group without ever considering asking for backup.

Kudos to me, Jason thinks and hums as he watches Dick turn around and start digging for fresh bandages inside a first aid box. I still got rid of most of the operation.

Following his own rules, too.

None of those bastards were ever going to lay hands on another human again.

After that, it's easy for him to adapt and accommodate to this new strange situation. To Dick just being _ there, _ like he's never been before, replacing ice packs, helping him to the bathroom. It's a miracle neither he nor Slade have taken his forced silence in their favor to yell about the many mistakes he made that led to his capture.

He knows Dick is probably waiting for him to be able to reply to the question of  _ what the fuck were you thinking _ so he can weaponize the words and throw them right back at Jason in a twist worthy of an acrobat.

Jason finds that he doesn't care too much about that.


End file.
